


caught

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Les Mis snippetfic [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Alternate Universe - College/University, And other tropey floofy things, Drabble, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wasn't wearing a costume either, unless he was supposed to be a loudmouthed cynic, in which case, props for authenticity, but he sprang across the room and the tails of his woolen topcoat flapped behind him like bat wings. He wasn't fast enough to cushion's Enjolras landing. This is why Enjolras should've called Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goshemily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/gifts).



> So for a few months now I've been snippeting and drabbling and trying to get back into the groove of writing on a regular basis (and finishing things!), and goshemily has been wonderfully supportive and inspirational. It's maybe a little too late to gift her a bag of Halloween candy but I hope it's never too late to say thanks.
> 
> (And hey, 31 October 2015 is only 275 days away, so that's good news, yeah? *g*)

Grantaire's disembodied voice echoed across the foyer. "Enjolras, I called you back nine times. What did you do with your phone?" 

Enjolras didn't answer quickly. The window he was standing near was whistling, low, like a cat's arched-back trill; something was wrong with his phone. Cursed phone. When he had tried to call Courfeyrac, it dialed Grantaire, a traitor's gambit. 

There had been a smoky party strewn with orange and black crepe paper, bass on the speakers deep and deafening enough to drown out thought, a cherry-mouthed ghoul pressing a cup to his lips saying "Sip, sip, sip." Then a long dark street and house with gaping jaws, then clicking bones rushing toward him, and every step he took something crunching under his feet like a thousand hissing roaches. 

On the inside the house was sort of airless and blank, disappointingly docile. He'd expected a fight and if there hadn't been a fight then why did his arm hurt? 

What had Grantaire asked him? Enjolras laid each puzzle piece out in his mind and saw himself throwing the squealing phone into a bush, somewhere outside. 

"Phone's gone," Enjolras said. "I hated it and it's gone." He hoped it choked to death. However, he would explain about Courfeyrac, since Grantaire was here and it was only polite.

He would sit down and explain about Courfeyrac.

He would sit down.

Grantaire wasn't wearing a costume either, unless he was supposed to be a loudmouthed cynic, in which case, props for authenticity, but he sprang across the room and the tails of his woolen topcoat flapped behind him like bat wings. He wasn't fast enough to cushion's Enjolras landing. This is why Enjolras should've called Courfeyrac.

"Ouch," Enjolras said from the floor, and burst into laughter. A plume of dust rose up like a spectre and disappeared. 

"Jesus," Grantaire said, eyes wide. He knelt beside Enjolras, scattering more dust, hands fluttering.

"'M'okay," Enjolras said, still laughing.

"You certain?" Grantaire asked.

"Yes, yep, didn't hurt," Enjolras said. "Heyyy, Grantaire, have you seen Courfeyrac tonight? I think he had court notes to write up but then he was going to pick up Combeferre from the lab and come to the party. You should've stayed at the party, there were many kinds of vampires."

Grantaire put his hand on Enjolras's knee, assessing damage, and grimaced. "You think I have a predilection for vampires?"

"Doesn't everyone? Courfeyrac loves _Dracula_ , it's one of his favorite novels. He was going to major in literature, did you know that, before he settled on law. He's so friendly and big-hearted and _smart_ smart, and sometimes, and it's so much fun when he's about to decimate someone's argument, it's basically like the instant before lightning strikes. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and I love him, he's such a good friend."

Enjolras stopped, frowned. It was possible he had slurred the last fifteen things he'd spoken aloud. 

Grantaire was almost smiling but not in a cheerful way, and his almost-smile was one of the saddest things Enjolras had ever seen. His head felt like it was hovering somewhere around the rafters and his arm burned like fire and there was something sticky between his fingers -- blood, he thought, the word a round red bubble rolling out of his reach. 

He could see his own breath, a parade of ghosts dissolving as they roamed the dark room. A stain was spreading down the glass-littered windowsill and there were many things to be bothered by, he recognized with distance, like the way he could not recollect why he was in this room, how long he'd been there, who broke the window. 

There had been a party, right, and he'd left early? Grantaire had left earlier. This was the even more rundown part of Marius's neighborhood, near the forest. 

He'd told Grantaire about the house with the gash maw because his possessed phone hadn't dialed Courfeyrac. His arm itched, his fingers were gluey. 

Grantaire was pulling off his long coat, wrapping it around Enjolras's shoulders. Enjolras brushed his clean fingers across the wrinkle on Grantaire's forehead. He thought fleetingly of benediction. Grantaire took his hand. 

"Don't you like Courfeyrac?" Enjolras asked.

"Yes, Enjolras. Courfeyrac's the best," Grantaire said. His voice was odd, pinched and rough. Not like he was lying. Enjolras knew that much. Grantaire and Courfeyrac got along very well, as it happened. 

And look, look, Grantaire had his phone out, he was dialing Courfeyrac because the photo of Courfeyrac wearing a turtle costume was displayed, which was perfect, Courfeyrac would know what to do. 

Joly would know what to do too, he had his own turtle suit, but he would freak out, not overtly, he wouldn't faint or anything, he was sturdier than that, but in his brain he would be all OH MY GOD and it would take him days to recover and poor Bossuet would have to sleep with the lights on because Joly would have to sleep with the lights on -- why do I know that, did Prouvaire tell me that? -- and Enjolras hated to cause domestic disruption.

"Joly and Bossuet are fifteen miles away at Musichetta's," Grantaire was saying to him. 

Grantaire was a mind reader, a sorcerer, a witch. Enjolras laughed imagining him in a pointy hat on a broomstick, riding one handed while sloshing around a bottle of wine with the other. Grantaire was turning green, Enjolras could tell it was green even though the room was shadowy and dusty and green was the right color under the circumstances any way you sliced it.

Enjolras looked at the curious rusting cut slashed down his arm.

"Shh, it's all right," Grantaire said since Enjolras was making a noise he didn't mean to be making. He slid an arm behind Enjolras and pulled him up so Enjolras was propped better in the corner. "We should keep pressure on that. You're not going to bleed to death or anything, just, I think everyone would agree pressure is better." 

He covered the wound with a clean cloth conjured from nowhere Enjolras could determine -- a magician! -- and pressed down. Enjolras's arm burned and itched. He ignored it. 

Grantaire smelled like candy corn and Enjolras leaned over until his nose was tucked at the juncture of Grantaire's throat and shoulder. Grantaire inhaled a sharp breath. Enjolras sighed, leaned further into him; Grantaire was warm, god, an oven full of sugar cookies. 

Grantaire's phone was making wah-wah sounds like a Charlie Brown teacher. He said "Hello, hey, can you hear me? Yeah--" into it and the phone made static sounds like a hive of bees and he said "Shit." A second later: "Gonna try texting everyone one more time." 

He held the phone up, squinted at it, waved it around. Watery blue light flashed over high beams furry with cobwebs, a cracked mirror opposite the window, the wooden floor planks smeared with months of settled dirt, now spotted with footsteps. 

Enjolras closed his eyes; when he opened them he was no longer floating halfway up the wall.

Grantaire's phone hiccupped and Grantaire muttered, "Thank fuck," and then said, "Oh."

"Hmm?" Enjolras was sleepy. There was no more blue light.

"Phone's out of juice," Grantaire said, still sounding odd. He blew out a breath.

"You didn't like the juice?" 

"What? No, my battery's died." Grantaire shifted and Enjolras leaned against him heavily, until he was tucked up under Grantaire's chin.

"I didn't like the juice either," Enjolras said, yawning. "It tasted terrible. That ghoul's the worst."

"Enjolras," Grantaire said, pulling away until Enjolras had to snap upright or fall over, "what ghoul?"

"The ghoul, you know," Enjolras said. "White hair, black teeth. No, wait: black hair, white teeth. Slick. Dapper." 

"You shouldn't go to sleep." Now Grantaire sounded Definitely Upset, and was pushing Enjolras's hair away from his face. Enjolras didn't know when he'd started sweating, but Grantaire's palm was cold and lovely on his throat.

Sometimes, Enjolras considered, sometimes Grantaire was very jolly and very crass and drank way too much, maybe not quite as much as Bahorel, or not in one sitting, but who could, Bahorel was Thor-sized. And Enjolras wanted to kick him in the shins. Grantaire, not Bahorel. Not because of Thor. 

Sometimes Grantaire was crass and clever and ridiculous; sometimes he looked at Enjolras like Enjolras was divine and a sensation like going too fast over a hill would unspool around Enjolras's chest.

"You would make an awful Loki," Enjolras said. Grantaire had dark hair like the ghoul but his was curly and soft and maybe a little too long and Enjolras wanted to put his hands in it. 

"I agree?" Grantaire said slowly, concentration on his face like he was trying his hardest to figure out what Enjolras was talking about, which Enjolras truly appreciated. Loki might do that, but then he'd stab you or hex you or jump into your body and force you to betray Thor. Grantaire would never betray him. Or Thor.

"Hey," Grantaire said, as though he were in a mind-meld with Enjolras and could not look away. "Don't panic, but we gotta get you to a hospital soon. The EMT dispatch said they were sending an ambulance immediately and I think Feuilly's on his way too, but if no-one's here in the next couple of minutes, we're gonna walk down toward Marius's and yell someone down, if you can walk. It might be easier for the ambulance to find us that way -- I don't know how often they come out this far since the subdivision's gone zombie." He shivered.

Enjolras blinked. He had no idea when Grantaire had spoken to an EMT. Grantaire looked serious and determined, not a trace of indifference or comedy on his face, his thumb softly brushing back and forth over Enjolras's throat. It felt better than anything had ever felt and Enjolras nodded because it seemed like that's what Grantaire needed him to do.

Grantaire nodded too. He didn't remove his hand and Enjolras blinked and blinked and the room was tilted silly, sliding into a sinkhole. He plucked at Grantaire's shirt with his sticky fingers and thought about how much he wanted to tuck his head under Grantaire's chin and fall asleep with Grantaire's arms around him. 

Both of them startled when the front door banged open and a black-horned fiend rushed in, cloud of dust rising around its hooves and pointy tales. Somewhere in the distance Enjolras heard a siren; he seemed to fall into it. The last thing he grasped was Grantaire catching him, before everything vanished.

 

____

When he surfaced, it was brighter. Rain drummed on a roof above him. His left arm ached a bit and his left hand was curled around someone else's hand. Without opening his eyes, he understood it was Grantaire's. He pressed it; it pressed back.

"They pumped your stomach in the ER," Combeferre said, somewhere to the right, "plus gave you some magic beans. You were hooked up to a glucose drip for a couple of hours and your vital signs have improved beautifully. You'll be good as new in no time."

"Mmm," Enjolras said. Everything went quiet again.

The next voice he heard was Courfeyrac's. Courfeyrac seemed to be under the impression Enjolras was awake.

"...No-one's agreed on what exactly was in the drink you were given, but Bahorel thinks the police have a suspect, whether or not they're willing to divulge their theories to us," Courfeyrac said, somewhere to the left. 

"As though we don't have enough of our own," Combeferre said, and Courfeyrac gave a frustrated groan. "ABC's recent activities have stirred up more than a few nests, you know."

"Enough for our so-called enemies to resort to this?"

"With politics," Combeferre began.

"Poison is not politics," Courfeyrac said, slapping the mattress. "And Marius is apoplectic about the whole thing."

"It's not Marius's fault in any way," Combeferre said.

"Of course not," Courfeyrac huffed.

"Barring coma, the hospital says your insurance wants you home within the next 24 hours." That was Feuilly, competing with Courfeyrac for Most Galled Visitor.

Enjolras opened his eyes. 

Feuilly smiled crookedly, a rueful dehorned demon. "Sorry I didn't get there sooner," he said. At least he was no longer the shape of Satan. 

"No problem," Enjolras said. Croaked, really, since his voice was as wrecked as if he'd been riding a roller coaster for ten hours.

An apt description for how he felt in general, now that he had shifted in the bed to sit up better.

Courfeyrac told Enjolras, "The police will want a statement from you." His mouth was set tight, like he wanted to punch someone in the worst way. He caught Enjolras looking and lurched forward. "I'm glad you're alive," he said with tremendous drama.

Enjolras let go of Grantaire to return Courfeyrac's smothering hug. When Courfeyrac stood up, wiping his eyes, Combeferre said to Enjolras, "There's a toiletry kit on the sink in the bathroom, courtesy of Prouvaire. He was here a few hours ago."

"Thank you," Enjolras said. 

"And Bahorel came with a jack o'lantern of candy, 'for energy,' he said," Feuilly informed him.

Enjolras glanced at the snaggle-toothed pumpkin on the bedside table, swung his legs over to the side of the bed, and stood up. He let the room level off, five faces focused on him like he might collapse. Combeferre led him to the toilet but left him to take care of things in private. 

Someone else's wet toothbrush was already in a cup on the sink. Enjolras unwrapped the new one in cellophane beside it and brushed his teeth, a task that seemed to demand more effort than usual.

Despite the duel way gravity was working in overdrive and the miniscule bathroom was pitching to and fro like Enjolras was in a funhouse closet he felt nearly refreshed after rinsing his mouth. Then he realized most likely everyone had seen his bare bum, if not more than that, on the shuffle to the bathroom. He slunk to bed, holding the dumb hospital gown closed awkwardly, and hoped he wasn't flushed or panting and that he'd remembered to pee in the appropriate place. 

Once settled, he snuck his hand around Grantaire's. Grantaire hid a flinch well, sitting in the chair by the bed wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes, gray under the eyes, hair frazzled. An irregular brown splotch drifting down the front of his t-shirt.

Enjolras swallowed against a large pang of remorse and resisted the absurd urge to climb into his lap. He clung to Grantaire's hand like one or both of them was dangling off a tree limb and could not bring himself to stop.

Grantaire's fingers flexed around his, like nothing, in fact, had changed but instead had been clarified, after some interminable nebulous confusion. 

Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras saw Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange a look with each other and Feuilly as they stood to leave. "Bossuet and Joly will be here later, and we should let you rest more in the meantime," Combeferre said, something careful in his voice Enjolras did not wish to pursue. He brushed his hand over Enjolras's head. "I'm also very glad you're alive," he said with benevolent humor. 

Enjolras tried not to be relieved when they were gone.

"Do you need anything? Want me to call for a nurse?" Grantaire asked the bed rail. He sounded anxious.

"I'm good," Enjolras said, wanting so much for Grantaire to look at him.

Grantaire nodded, still watching the bed rail. "They brought a pitcher of water, if you want a drink."

Enjolras was silent for a moment. "That happened, didn't it? Someone drugged me at a Halloween party?"

"Someone slipped you something at the party, yes," Grantaire told the most fascinating bed rail on God's green earth. "Who or why... You were targeted, though; everyone seems sure of that much."

The bed rail offered no comment on the topic.

Enjolras decided thinking about the situation could wait a while longer. He squeezed Grantaire's hand, hard, and Grantaire finally looked up. The misery in his eyes made Enjolras's throat tighten.

"Come here," Enjolras said. 

Grantaire shook his head. "What--" 

"With me," Enjolras said, scooting away from him in the bed. He pulled back the scratchy blanket, tugged at Grantaire's hand. 

"I...shouldn't," Grantaire said, wary. "Hospitals probably frown on that sort of thing."

"Please?"

A softness came across Grantaire's face. He climbed into the bed. Enjolras turned onto his side and curled into him, tucked his head under Grantaire's chin. Grantaire pulled the blanket over both of them.

"Just sleep," Grantaire whispered. Enjolras fell again, knowing he was already gently caught.

**Author's Note:**

> zombie properties = abandoned houses which haven't been repossessed by the bank yet
> 
>  
> 
> i don't have an addiction to e/r falling asleep in each other's arms, u have an addiction to e/r falling asleep in each other's arms
> 
> (no i totally have an addiction)


End file.
